


'Til the Stars Fall from the Sky

by ironicHeadtilt



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Finn is a German soldier but he's not entirely German, Historical drama, M/M, No side is depicted as "good", Parts in French, Poe is French, Trench Warfare, WWI AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8188054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicHeadtilt/pseuds/ironicHeadtilt
Summary: Finn is a German soldier stationed on the front lines between Germany and France when he's put in charge of a French POW.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I want to make it very clear that I'm not trying to make light of WWI. It was an actual war which cost actual lives. I have the utmost respect for the history of it and did my fair share of research to write what little I have written.
> 
> The title is based off the song, 'Til the Stars Fall from the Sky (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OqRpSvOdsI) I can only find recordings of high school choirs singing it, so that fucking sucks. It's a great song.

14\. Boys, the list does order

‘Cross country lines and it sought

For men made of brick and mortar

To rush to the front ‘fore war has stopped.

 

[Men, when the army is full,

Your adventure dies in the cradle.

Go back to your mothers and fathers dull

To wonder if you were capable.]

 

Soldiers in coats with sewn-in money,

Think of returning home to reminisce

About un-dying youthful energy

And old war relationships

 

Patriots, the trains sway

Under the weight of full capacity

Of comrades with voices raised

for their destined victory.

 

O chosen heavenly-eyed,

There shines the gun.

 

O gods the trenches flood

With gutted blood and rain’s waters.

Skeletons crawl limply from the mud.

They're soldiers. They're soldiers.

 

O boys the list does continue

Down the line and it sought

Men of brick; it finds only sinew

Left lying under barbed wire to rot.

 

\---

 

This was home. Flat blue skies stretched in front of Finn, curved seductively above him. Maroon dirt flaked off his face, a cigarette held between his lips. Warped and ripped cards were marinating in the mud around him, flicked away by his inconsiderate fingers.

He was sinking into the wall of the trench, his feet wedged against packed earth - the only part of the trench in direct sunlight. He hadn't experienced dry dirt in the sap before. It wasn't as great as he had hoped. He wished it would just start raining again.

The smell of rotting meat wasn't very pleasant. The bugs - the flies - were more aggressive, the distant buzzing of their flight a white noise lullaby. Just above him, just beyond the ledge, beyond where he could see, the fruits of some guy's labor were evident. They were leaking under the sun.

He peeled another card from the stack. They were all stuck together. They were now a useless brick of thick paper. They were handmade, his uncle’s cards. He'd forgotten about them, forgotten he'd hurriedly stuffed them in his pocket on his way out. He'd thought he and the boys could play a little poker.

Finn pushed his helmet back, scratching at the stuff that caked his face. It turned his fingernails into brown crescents. Dirt dropped onto his nose, his lips. The rain would fix that too.

“Can you watch him?” was asked of Finn. An older German man was standing where the sap ended and the fortified trench began. He had in his company a very scrawny fellow in a blue coat.

“Yes, sir.” Finn replied flatly. “Who is it?”

“He’s a dead man. Make sure he doesn't try anything funny.”

“Yes, sir.” The German pushed the blue coat - blue, the color of the French - into the ditch. The man fell with a thump, mud splattering onto his cheek. Finn flicked another card as the German turned back down the front line trench, retreating out of view. The card fluttered around the person on the ground.

“Parlez-vous français?” Finn asked. The man pulled himself out of the mud with effort. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes were sunken. He kept his head down, pressed himself against the farthest wall for support.

“I speak German,” He replied curtly - in German, - his mouth still shaping syllables like he was speaking French. Finn nodded, pulled his cigarette from his lips, puffing smoke like an egg.

“What's your name?”

The man kept his head down. Finn leaned forward, the mud making a squelching sound. The other man flinched.

“It's fine. Don't tell me, then.” Finn placed the cigarette back in his mouth, settling back into his hole. “Anything particular you should be doing right now?”

“I won't be here long.”

Finn placed the rest of his ruined card pile back into his pocket.

“What gives you that idea?” Finn asked and was met with intense eyes, the only strong thing left of this skinny Frenchman. Finn took the cigarette back out, tapped the ash, licked his lips, tasted dust and blood.

A soldier walked between them, waddling under bad experiences, into the front line trench. The Frenchman turned his head.

“Ils ne nous comprennent pas si nous parlons français.” Finn said in a low voice.

“I don't like hearing you speak French. You say it wrong.”

“So I've been told,” Finn said, face neutral. A pick-axe hit the ground in front of them.

“Take him,” The German man from before was back and pointing down the line. “That way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As far as you can.”

“Yes, sir.” Finn stuck the spent cigarette in the mud, picking up his things to move.

“Don't try anything funny.” The German was talking to the man- the POW, Finn admitted to himself. What he was doing on the front line, Finn figured, wasn’t any of Finn’s business. “Make sure he doesn't try anything funny.”

That was directed at Finn.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Hey!” The guard was talking to the prisoner again. “Keep your dirty French comments to yourself!”

“He said, ‘yes, sir’, sir.”

“What was that?”

“He said, ‘yes, sir.’ In French. Sir.”

“Tell him to keep his damn French to himself.”

“Sait-il que vous parlez l’allemand?” Finn said sternly and also like it was a statement.

“Non, l’allemand est une langue pour les porcs.” The prisoner replied amicably.

“What'd he say?” The German asked.

“He said he meant no offense, sir.” Finn said, and the prisoner lifted his eyebrows. “He doesn't know much German, sir. Qu’est-ce que votre nom? Je suis trop curieux, je dois sovoir.”

“Je m’apelle Poe.” He said. Finn looked at him a second.

“What in God’s dying earth are you talking about?” The German was still trying to be in charge.

“I was just confirming how much German he knew, sir. He knows very little, sir.”

\--

The pick axe was ultimately ineffective in removing the soft mud from the trench wall. It, however, was effective in making narrow but deep gashes in the the mud. The mud revolted by grabbing onto the metal of the pick axe whenever it's guard was down and holding on grossly, so any real progress was slow to come. Poe seemed fine with it, hacking away at the sludge with an aggressive strength outweighing his corporeal pounds.

Finn was idly leaning against the wall, watching Poe’s shoulder blades weave under his damp thinning undershirt, his suspenders gripping his shoulders. His blue coat had been tossed onto the dry dirt of the center aisle some hours ago.

They'd been silent. Echoes of other conversations occasionally wafted down the trench, swirling words around them like ice in an empty whiskey glass, and that was their muzak. Finn was fiddling with the strap on his gun, eyeing the partially hidden machine gun anchored some feet away. The men who were stationed there were smoking cigarettes and drinking something hard from a cantine.

“Have you used it?” Poe asked in low French, pale and resting against the pick axe. “The machine gun, I mean.”

“Have you?” Finn held his gun close.

“Yes.” Poe coughed, wiping his face with his arm. He could've been pushed over by a hard enough wind. Finn kept his pity off his face.

They both watched the gun uneasily, as one might watch a limp flag during the pledge of allegiance. Poe coughed again, picking up his instrument and turning back to his work.

“I never used one.” Finn admitted, scratching at his cheek nervously. “I helped feed the, uh, the ammunition. I- I couldn't watch the… My old buddy, he'd do it. I'd supply the bullets.”

Poe didn't respond. He kept up his pace.

The ground wasn't solid under Finn. He stared. The cogs of memory ground frictionally, not quite slotted together correctly anymore. The sky overwhelmed him. The gun in his hand overwhelmed him.

Finn took a shaky breath. Poe heaved a sigh.

“Stop,” Poe said, plainly.

Finn felt embarrassed. He looked down at the blue jacket, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He scrubbed his face, focusing on blurring himself back into a stupor.

“We should get back soon,” Finn said, his thumb and index finger pressed into his eyelids. Poe kept working. “Hey, listen, we should start getting back soon.”

Poe used the pick axe sideways, long ways, scooping out a good dent and flinging the mud to the side with a wet slapping sound. Finn watched him carve into the wall. Finn was agitated by it, by having to awkwardly stand in the trench, his things dangling off of him like some fucked up Christmas tree, as the sun began to set, the blue tinted orange, while this prisoner ignored him, embarrassed him.

“Hey, stop! I said we should go. Put your pick axe down and let's move it. Hey!”

Poe raised the pick axe over his head and Finn grabbed it by the metal. With his back still turned, Poe tried to pull it forward and it didn't budge. Finn swallowed, his throat still tight.

Poe let go. He straightened himself out from the curled position he had been in. He silently grabbed his coat from the dirt, flapped it twice and tucked it under his arm. He waited, glaring stonily at Finn. Finn’s face revealed conflicting emotions, but not which ones. Poe gestured.

“Are you going to lead the way or am I supposed to walk about freely?” Poe asked. Finn grabbed Poe under the elbow, pulling him in front of him and pushing him forward. Poe walked casually. All Finn could see of him was matted brown hair.

\---

“The Trench” had various levels. The farthest front were outcroppings - saps - which were basically dirt. They ran perpendicular to the frontline trench, which had on its walls sticks and sandbags for structure. Another trench connected the frontline to the support trench; that trench was called the communications trench. The support trench had dugouts underground where the company’s HQ was, etc. The whole thing was wrapped in barbed wires and machine guns and decomposing organisms.

Out beyond the saps was No Man’s Land. For a short time in modern history, there was a land unclaimable by any person who wanted it. This was the biggest problem of the time.

Finn and Poe were seated comfortably on some thin wooden slats. The support trench was cozy and welcoming. They were eating soup that was equal parts mud and vegetable broth. The bread was dark brown and tasteless. The coffee smelled like gas. Other men were huddled about, smoking cigarettes and dumping their coffee onto the ground.

“Who’s the guy?” A very youthful looking young man - a boy, honestly, - sat down next to Finn. His face was all peach fuzz and baby cheeks.

“A dead man,” Finn responded calmly. The boy nodded.

“They working him to death?”

“Yes.”

“Does… Does he speak German?”

“No.”

The boy picked at his nails, hesitating to say what he wanted to say.

“I don't know what to say.” He finally said.

“You don’t say anything. That’s what you say.” Finn said. The boy nodded sharply, got up, went and ducked into some dugout.

Finn sighed, looked down at the bread he still hadn't gotten the courage to eat yet. He saw Poe out the corner of his eye looking at him. He hadn't thought quite so much social flexibility would be required of him.

He hadn't seen the Old German since he handed him Poe, nor had he seen any other POWs. It made little to no sense to him. He’d thought POWs would be held somewhere deep inland. He’d thought there would be pristine guards watching barbed-wire fences for attempted escapees. Barracks with straw bunks and useless manual labor. Just the whole rigamarole. Right then, the only things keeping Poe from running were the threat of a shot to the back, bodily weakness due to malnutrition.

Where was the glory in that?

Finn didn't know what to do with Poe, so he yanked him to his feet and reported to the Captain.

“Who is he?” The Captain asked.

“I don't know, sir. A Frenchman, sir. Prisoner of War, sir.” Finn said. Poe was standing in front of him.

“Well, is he under control?”

“Uh. Yes. Sir. But where do I put him for the night, sir?”

“Does he know?”

“Who, sir? Know what, sir?”

“The Frenchman. Does he know where he’s supposed to go?”

“Savez-vous où vous appartenez?” Finn asked Poe, knowing the answer. The answer was a shrug. “He doesn't know, sir.”

“Then pick a friend and watch him yourself. Problem solved.”

“Isn't there some protocol for extracting POWs?” Finn knew his hand was digging into Poe’s elbow. “Sir?”

“Not anymore.” The captain said, face straight.

He pushed Finn and Poe out of the dugout. Finn and Poe stood for a second. Then Finn groaned quietly, turning towards the wall and scrubbing his face. Poe looked uncomfortable.

A shot whizzed by. It was way above them, hit the dirt some yards behind the trench line with a thud, throwing earth clumps into the air. Finn pushed Poe against the embankment towards No Man’s Land. His hand clamped over Poe’s mouth. The captain scuttled out of the dugout, manually holding his helmet on his head, his chin straps waving wildly.

“Hey, dicks, Lucy out!” He yelled crisply, pressing himself against the wall next to Finn.

There was a flash of movement, boots against mud, backs against boards, then silence. The night sky was clear, the dark blue sea of pinpoint light flickers.

“It's gotta be a lone sniper,” Finn whispered, his chest pressed stiff against the wall.

The captain waited, eyes on the sky. Another shot went by, farther off than before.

“Some percy thinks he's gonna get our numbers.” The captain said, wiping the sweat from his brow. Then shouted: “Listen up, we’re gonna lay doggo until dawn. Everyone stay on your toes; guns and gas masks ready.”

The captain shuffled back into his dugout. Poe pushed on Finn’s hand, which was still over his mouth. Finn dropped it, turning carefully so his back was to the wall.

“We’re staying here for the night.” Finn said, lifting the gun-strap from his body, unhooking his gas-mask from his belt, and sliding to the floor. Poe followed, sitting down with a quiet huff. “I'm gonna trust you're not stupid enough to try to run.”

Poe looked dogged. His head was leaned back, resting on the uneven surface of the trench embankment. He was gazing at the sky with a blank face, lips slightly parted, like he needed to to breathe. His hands were lying limply in his lap, shoulders drooping. Finn had a feeling that Poe wasn’t there anymore, was focussed somewhere a million miles away, and a million moments behind them; the thousand yard stare that Finn wished he’d never seen, wished he’d never wanted, was staring into the brimming void.

Finn rested his head similarly, his fingers wrapped around his gun stalk.

\--

It still hadn't rained. The late morning sun was drying the mud. The smell prevailed.

The young boy from before was named Rey. He was one of the chosen to be sent out to flush out the sniper. He was sitting on the ground, legs straight in front of him, across from where Poe was digging into the wall using a spade. There was a pretty good divet.

“I think it's just a lone sniper.” Finn said again, holding his gun with both hands. His gas mask was hooked around his wrist.

“Yeah.” Rey said.

“It's a simple mission. There and back.”

“Yeah.” Rey said.

“Puis-je avoir de l’eau?” Poe asked, leaning. Finn had to switch tracks.

“Uh, y- oui bien sûr. Attendez.” Finn said in a low voice.

“Why do you speak French?” Rey asked, his eyes flicking up to look at Finn.

“Because he doesn't speak German.”

“No, I mean,” Rey kicked at a newly loosened rock. “How do you know how to speak French?”

“Oh,” Finn said, adjusting his grip on his rifle. He glanced over at Poe, who wasn't looking in his direction. “My grandmother was French.”

Rey went back to staring straight forward, his hand visibly shaking.

There was a call some ways down the line that all who’d been assigned to Bint were to report to Senior Officer Antilles. Rey looked like he'd lost all his blood. He silently implored Finn, panic evident in his wet green eyes. Finn tried and failed to not be moved by it. He crouched down until he was eye-to-eye with Rey.

“Hey, listen, just do what the senior officer says, play it smart, keep your head down and aim to kill. It's going to be fine, okay?”

Rey nodded vigorously, a steel coming to his eyes as he revved himself up. Finn put his hand heavily on Rey’s shoulder, nodded once and stood up, offering Rey a hand to help him up. He lightly slapped it away.

Rey got up, grabbed his things and left. Finn watched his back, expression changing more the farther away he went.

“No rush or anything,” Poe said, sticking the spade into the dirt.

“I should probably just force you to keep working,” Finn said, still watching Rey join the other troops in the crowded area.

“You should probably have more than one person watching me.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” Poe said, focussed on Finn’s face.

“I should probably send you across No Man’s Land with your hands tied behind your back.” Finn said, coolly, as Rey left his line of sight.

“I don't understand you.”

“Me neither.” He unhooked the water cantina from his belt and handed it to Poe.

\--

By noon, the heat had reached unprecedented highs. The steamy air boiled bodies live and dead. A hot breeze pushed the rancid smell of No Man’s Land heavy into the trenches.

Men were told to move the bodies which had been edited out of their minds, had become another part of the landscape.

A mass grave was the best they could do.

Finn tried to pick up a body by its armpits, yanked and fell backwards. The upper part of the body, wrapped in khaki coat, landed on Finn’s lap, pulled from from its lower half, a rotten yarn of intestines spilling to glisten in the sun. The head looked up at him with boiled eyes, teeth peeking through a thin spot in its cheek, a kind of cheshire grin.

They shoveled dirt onto the positioned bodies, laid as straight as they could. The uniforms weren't uniform. The bodies were at various stages of rot. The dirt covered them.

They lost a part of their trench.

Finn was settled against the earth, blood on the better part of his under shirt, smoking a cigarette. Poe sat across from him, eyes unfocused.

\--

A series of reports were heard across the speckled field. The trench went silent. A crackling of bullets, inconsistent at first, became a blanket of noise, a discordant harmony of menacing cries. Men shuffled.

Finn held his gun to his chest with white knuckles. He locked eyes with skinny Poe, who didn't have a rifle, didn't have a mask. The gunshots faded, clinking.

Poe’s face was unreadable. Finn was petrified.

“I won't let you die,” he said, holding the rifle tighter. Poe licked his lips. “Do the same for me. Please, Poe.”

“Get into position!” The Captain called out, sliding behind a wall of sandbags and propping up his rifle. “Go up!”

A rallying of soft clicks sounded as soldiers peaked over barriers and barricades with guns for eyes. The machine gun clunked into place, ammunition tinkling.

Finn nodded to Poe, the whites of his eyes flashing as he turned his back and stepped up to peak over the trench wall. His fingers fumbled for safeties, locks, checking the bolt, checking the bullet. Finn felt Poe watching him, like a grip on the scruff of his neck.

A sickening silence swept over the soldiers, the air deadening in a heated shimmer. Finn’s hands were swelled with sweat; it wettened the creases of his fingers and palms.

Dull thunks sounded down the trench line. A fog was curling upwards, spreading as Finn scrambled with his gas mask.

“Finn-” Poe said, edging forward. He didn't have a gas mask. Finn hesitated.

“It doesn't kill you,” Finn said, masking himself.

His breath was suddenly loud in his ears. The glass was foggy, scratched, and cave-like. He went back up, his hands a bit steadier. With the mask, he was more disconnected from the world around him, anonymous and synonymous 

Poe ran up next to Finn and climbed the trench side in three footholds, scrambling over the top on his stomach, clawing forward. Finn attempted to grab his ankles, but Poe kicked him off, sliding under the barbed wire.

Finn pulled his mask off again, quickly eyeing the fastly creeping gas as he shouted.

“Poe!” Finn’s heart dropped, an unexpected reaction to Poe’s evident getaway. He hesitated, put his mask back on, and trained his gun on Finn’s horizontal form. His sights shook.

He cursed himself, unable to pull the trigger, unable to let him go. The gas swept forward, surrounding Finn and leaking upward, tendrils reaching for Poe.

Suddenly Finn saw it, what Poe was scuttling towards. A body, a French soldier, had been left, hopelessly wrapped in embedded barbs, heavily decomposed, with a mask still fixed in his bony fingers. Finn heard gunshots to the right of him, a volley of fire from rifles as the machine gun revved up behind him.

The gas engulfed Poe just as he made it to the body. Finn couldn't see him through the haze, couldn't see anything. And he heard gunshots. No one would be dumb enough to run up to the trench with such low visibility; the German soldiers would see the French at just about the same time. Finn suddenly realized where they were coming from.

But the original shots had come from the open field; Finn turned to the soldier closest to him, who seemed to be just as confused as he looked down the line into the fog. He was afraid. Finn looked up, tossed his rifle so it hung from him by its strap, and went over the hill the way Poe had gone.

Finn crawled forward, hearing a commotion behind him that was just barely not his problem. Bullets seared the air, their sounds unfettered by distance. Finn grit his teeth, tears burning his eyes and further fogging up his mask. He followed a straight line forward, deserting.

Finn had disconnected the idea from the action. He wasn't deciding to go, he was just going.

Poe was lying next to the body, holding the mask to his face, obviously hiccuping. It was apparent he hadn't been able to get the mask on before he'd gotten a lungful of gas. Finn grabbed Poe’s foot, shaking it to get his attention. Poe jumped, lifting his fist, which was now holding a knife. Finn assumed it originally belonged to the third man out there with them on No Man’s Land, quietly fertilizing the grass on which he lay. Poe turned and saw Finn, but the mask obscured his expression. Finn shook his head, his hand lifting from Poe’s foot and splaying his fingers, hoping to relay some kind of cameraderie. Poe gripped the knife tighter.

The gas was dissipating gently into the open sky. Finn flipped over so he could see the trench. Rifle fire was still heavy, but the machine gun was abandoned, which was probably sensible. Whoever was ambushing them was in the trenches with them, too close quarters for the brutality of the erratic spray of bullets the machine gun offered. Finn saw Poe was looking at the trench, too; Finn couldn't imagine what his next move could possibly be. He, Poe, should probably just run.

Hands went into the air in the trench, masks removed, surrenders called and guns tossed aside. The lull in rifle fire didn't lull much before it resumed, one side of the altercation unarmed. It was a slaughter. Finn broke out in a cold sweat, licking his lips under the mask and tasting salt. Poe grabbed Finn’s shoulder, directing him forward in an army crawl. Finn numbly followed him out of the metal thorn bushes.

Poe brought them both to their knees, their gas masks still a barrier between them, before knocking Finn’s helmet off his head and starting to undo Finn’s waist belt. Finn yanked himself away, pulling his mask off.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” He asked, hands scrambling for the rifle he still had strapped to his torso. The gas which lingered made his eyes water, throat scratchy, but not horribly so.

“Take off your coat,” Poe said, letting his mask cling to his forehead and off his face. His eyes were watering fiercely and his voice was hoarse. He cleared it repeatedly, involuntarily.

“Why?”

“You're with me.”

“With you?” Poe had gotten Finn’s waist belt undone, was starting down the buttons. He was essentially ignoring the rifle Finn was holding. Poe took a breath to talk and flew into a coughing fit. The last of the gunfire was subsiding, the unmistakable sound of Canadian English drifting over the field. They'd been massacred by Canada.

Finn finished taking off his coat, replaced the rifle strap on his shoulder and crossed his arms protectively across his chest. Poe swallowed furiously, pointing at the rifle.

“German,” was all he could get out.

“I can't just-” Finn panicked looking down at his protection, the only thing that had always stood between him and death. Poe was looking at the trench, his face red. “Why are you doing this?”

Poe looked at Finn, his eyes wet. He bit his lip, maybe to stop another volley of coughs.

“This won't even work,” Finn said, reluctantly taking his rifle off his shoulder and handing it to Poe.

Poe nodded, took the gun, and tossed it to the side. Finn nearly had a heart attack.

Poe stood them up, starting to wander down the line as he put his hands up.

“Parlez-vous français? Parlez-vous français?” Poe called, coughing sporadically and tripping over himself. Finn followed his lead, putting his hands up and trying to act relieved. Some Canadians trained their guns on them, signaling the others with a waving hand. Finn felt his vision swim, eyes trained on the weapons. He was going to die.

One of the men took off his mask.

“Oui,” he said, his gun lowered. Poe stopped where he was, his hands still up.

“I'm Poe Damoran, ace pilot for the French air brigade” he said, fingers shaking. “They were holding me prisoner.”

“Who’s he?” The man asked with a gesture in Finn’s direction.

“My co-pilot, a Frenchman” Poe lied, and cleared his throat. It was obvious he was still fighting the irritation in his throat. The man turned to the man to his right, who still had his rifle raised. They conversed briefly, shrugging their shoulders as they spoke. Finn wanted to run.

“Can he speak?” The man finally called back.

“He suffers from shock.” Poe called back.

“We don't really got a reason to kill you,” he confessed, “But we don’t got anywhere to put you either-” He hesitated. “-so, you’re going to march West. Find an allied camp. They’ll deal with you there.”

Poe started to thank them.

“Start walking now, hands up, and don’t put them down until you’re willing to bet we can’t see you. And don’t do anything funny.”

Poe snuck a look at Finn before deliberately turning his back to the trench, hands up. Finn followed suit and they were facing West and a field which ducked and dove for almost three miles.

And they walked.

Finn wanted to look back, because of the a platoon of men with guns, because of his unreasonable instinct to never turn his back to a platoon of men with guns, because he was also turning his back on his trench, his freshly fallen brothers in arms, his country, his duty. Desertion weighed heavier on him with every step. His head hung, his hands up, and he focused on moving his feet. The feeling that he was suddenly no longer needed on the front line hit him, that he wasn’t a part of the war anymore. He was drifting, unsure of what he wanted in light of his perceived irresponsibility. As he walked, as he surveyed the ground that had been lost to the war efforts, which was covered in abandoned foxholes and home to countless graves in every direction, he felt himself shrink in the cosmos.

Poe was slightly in front of him, seemingly calm, carefully avoiding divots in the dirt. Finn linked himself to his movements, to the profound confidence in Poe’s shoulders, and tried to focus on the immediate task ahead: lying and hiding to survive. It was a familiar task for Finn.

**Author's Note:**

> It's not finished. If you want to read more, please subscribe to the work. Thank you for reading <33


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